I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Demeter brought Nathan to Rome with a single gesture—light bending, space folding—and the moment their feet touched the stone platform, she vanished in a swirl of golden essence. No farewell, no lingering hesitation.

She was eager—almost anxious—to return to her Garden.

To Persephone.

Nathan understood her perfectly.

Demeter’s protectiveness wasn’t merely maternal instinct—it was devotion. A goddess guarding the one fragment of her existence untouched by divine politics, curses, and ancient grudges. Living with her daughter in that peaceful sanctuary… it was a life removed from pain.

A life Nathan wanted, one day.

A home untouched by violence.A family he could protect.A quiet corner of the world where the screams of war could never reach.

But that future felt impossibly distant—so far away he could barely imagine the path leading to it. Still… he held onto the idea like a fragile flame.

Shaking off the thoughts, he exhaled and looked around.

He stood atop the Senate Castle, Rome sprawled beneath him.

It was nearly noon; sunlight washed over the city’s ancient stone, revealing scars from the night before. The Red Hollowing had struck like a nightmare—beasts tearing through streets, screams echoing through the night, bloodshed staining marble and dust.

Yet now…

Silence had replaced terror.

Civilians filled the streets—not running, not crying, but rebuilding. Men and women carried broken stones, hammered planks into place, swept debris, comforted each other. Their faces were exhausted, bruised, grief-stricken…

But determined.

The city was breathing again.

Nathan watched quietly. Despite the destruction, despite the lingering scent of smoke and broken mortar, Rome felt… lighter than before. Cleaner. As if the corruption that festered under its foundations had finally exhaled and dissipated.

“Strange,” he murmured to himself. “It looks… better.”

A small, almost reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

He had thought he didn’t care about Rome. He had thought it was just another stop on his path.

But after everything… maybe he had grown fond of it.

Just as the thought settled, he sensed a presence behind him.

“Nate…”

Her voice was soft, trembling slightly.

Nathan turned.

“Medea.”

She stood there, still as a statue, but her heterochromatic eyes… her eyes were filled with shadows—fear, worry, the residue of a terror she had been suffocating in since the moment he vanished for so many hours. She had felt helpless, powerless, fearing the worst… fearing she would lose him.

And now he was here—alive.

The tension that clung to her broke silently.

Nathan stepped toward her. He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek gently.

Medea shivered at the touch, her body instinctively relaxing, the panic uncoiling in her chest. Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she leaned subtly into his palm.

“Everything ended well,” Nathan said quietly.

She nodded once. “I have the man… just like you asked.”

A faint smile curved Nathan’s lips.

So—Caesar.The man the entire Roman military was frantically searching for… was already in their hands.

“Good,” Nathan said. “Then let’s go have a talk… with the future great leaders of Rome.”

It did not take Nathan long to reach the Theatre of Pompey. Even from afar, the colossal structure rose above the surrounding marble buildings like a slumbering titan, its arches catching the morning light in a way that made the ancient stone seem almost golden. The streets leading to it were lined with statues of forgotten heroes and half-remembered deities, their cold stone eyes watching him with silent judgment.

Once, power in Rome had been concentrated within the Senate Castle—an opulent fortress that over time had decayed into a monument of excess and debauchery. Rumors had long whispered of drunken senators, slaves imported for pleasure, and endless feasts held while the people starved. But after Fulvius’s merciless purge—efficient, swift, and bloody—the Senate Castle’s influence crumbled, and authority returned to its rightful place: the grand Theatre of Pompey, built generations ago to honor the great general.

Ironically, the man it was named after had since lost every shred of honor he once possessed, but the building itself remained a symbol. Rome loved symbols more than truth.

Nathan didn’t pause to admire the architecture or bask in the historical weight of the structure. He simply strode forward and entered through the massive doors, his steps echoing against the polished stone.

“Hey, who are you?” a soldier barked, stepping forward instantly, spear lowered in caution.

Nathan didn’t hesitate. “Septimius.”

The reaction was immediate. The soldier’s body stiffened, his eyes widening as if he had just glimpsed a monster lurking in the shadows. It could easily have been a lie—Septimius was infamous, not commonly seen—but when the soldier met Nathan’s demonic gold eyes, his doubt shattered. He recoiled, stumbling slightly before steadying himself, throat bobbing in a hard swallow. Everyone had heard of Septimius. Few had ever seen him. Yet somehow, instinctively, he knew.

Without another word, the soldier spun around and dashed inside to alert the others.

Nathan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck in mild annoyance. A moment later, shadows rippled over his features as he restored the guise of Septimius. The persona was well known in Rome, more practical, less troublesome. His true appearance—too divine, too sharp, too unsettling—tended to provoke either worship or fear, neither of which he wished to deal with right now. He was tired, after all. Bone-tired.

As he stepped within the main halls, the shift was immediate. Soldiers and senators moving briskly through the corridors halted mid-stride, eyes widening before they bowed their heads or saluted.

“Lord Septimius.”

“Septimius, it’s a great honor!”

“Thank you for saving us!”

“I witnessed your battle in the Coliseum!”

Nathan merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, offering the briefest of nods before continuing deeper inside. Their admiration rolled toward him like a wave, sincere and unrestrained. Apparently, his reputation had grown beyond anything he expected. Not only among the common people but among the senators as well. His battle against Romulus had spread like wildfire—sketches circulated in the markets, embellished stories whispered through taverns, scribes already drafting embellished accounts of the event.

Nathan never sought fame, and the sheer intensity of it now almost amused him.

Caesar, on the other hand… had fallen lower than dust. Everyone had witnessed his disgrace—fleeing the arena, trembling, abandoning his own people. And when the truth emerged, that he had been the very spark that ignited the chaos tormenting Rome… any remnants of respect or loyalty toward him evaporated instantly.

Statues once erected to glorify him had already been toppled, mutilated, or burned. The people did not forgive betrayal easily.

“You have come at last, Septimius.”

Nathan lifted his gaze to see Fulvius approaching, Crassus close beside him. The two men wore expressions of tempered relief, though Fulvius’ eyes retained a faint glimmer of calculation, as always.

“We were concerned about your disappearance,” Fulvius said, voice calm yet edged with curiosity.

“Not even a full day has passed. Did you hope I wouldn’t return?” Nathan replied.

Fulvius let out a low chuckle. “You have quite the sharp tongue, boy.” His tone softened, though his eyes betrayed nothing. “But no—your return is precisely what we wanted. Come. We have matters to discuss in private.”

With a gesture, he beckoned them forward.

Nathan followed, silent and composed, with Medea walking behind him. She wore a mask concealing most of her features, her presence quiet but unmistakably intimidating to anyone who crossed her path.

The corridors of the Curia of Pompey were quieter than the bustling entrance hall, their high ceilings capturing even the faintest footsteps and echoing them like distant murmurs. Torches burned steadily along the walls, casting warm halos of light over mosaics depicting Rome’s victories—victories that now felt like half-forgotten dreams in an era of crumbling power.

Nathan and his small entourage crossed through the final archway before reaching a private chamber reserved only for the most influential figures. The room was richly adorned: deep crimson curtains draped along the walls, polished marble floors reflecting the light of several bronze lamps, and two ornate sofas crafted from dark wood and covered with soft imperial-purple cushions.

Nathan did not stand on ceremony. He lowered himself onto one of the luxurious sofas with a faint sigh, already wearing the expression of a man too tired to entertain unnecessary pleasantries. Medea took her place behind him, silent as a shadow, her masked face angled downwards. Even without speaking, she radiated an aura that made the air in the chamber feel sharper.

Crassus and Fulvius took the opposite seat. Crassus seated himself carefully, maintaining his dignified posture. Fulvius, however, leaned back with an ease that signaled both confidence and familiarity with these halls of power.

Fulvius was the first to break the silence.

“You have become quite the figure in Rome,” he said, a small amused tilt at the corner of his mouth. “More famous than Caesar himself, it seems.”

Nathan shrugged slightly. “It seems so.”

Crassus cleared his throat. The curiosity that had been simmering in his eyes since they met now spilled forward.

“Tell me, Septimius—was this what you intended? To rise above Caesar in influence and reputation?”

Nathan met his gaze without hesitation.

“Not really,” he replied. “I only wanted Caesar dragged down into the dirt. That happened. The fame I gained afterward… that was merely a convenient result. I took advantage of it, nothing more.”

Both men exchanged looks—uncertain whether Nathan was being brutally honest or simply arrogant. The events that had unfolded seemed too perfectly aligned, too precise to be explained as coincidence or mere opportunism. Yet luck had played a role, and Caesar’s own madness had catapulted Nathan into the spotlight more effectively than any deliberate scheme could have.

A half-truth, but an effective one.

Nathan shifted forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze sharpened.

“What happened to Caesar’s allies?”

“They are all being judged,” Crassus answered, his voice steady.

Nathan blinked once, then lifted a brow.

“Judged? Instead of executing them and feeding their bodies to the dogs, you’re holding trials?”

Fulvius burst into laughter—loud, hearty, and entirely unrestrained. Crassus, however, was struck speechless for a moment, torn between horror and exasperation.

It amused Fulvius greatly. He had wanted to do exactly what Nathan described. It was Crassus who convinced him otherwise.

“We must show Rome that the Republic stands strong,” Crassus had insisted earlier. “That the Senate—not the Emperor—holds final authority.”

The strategy had worked. The senators now adored him for it, their favor tipping toward Crassus like scales weighted with gold.

Regaining his composure, Fulvius nodded.

“I considered that approach myself, I won’t lie. But Rome is a republic once again. There must be laws, trials—order. We are not barbarians.”

“There is a difference,” Nathan replied calmly, “between being a barbarian and doing what is necessary.”

The point was dropped, though not forgotten.

“So,” Nathan continued, leaning back, “what matters now is what we do going forward.”

Crassus exchanged a look with Fulvius before speaking.

“Before anything else, we cannot advance fully until Caesar is found.”

Nathan’s expression didn’t change.

“Caesar, huh?” he said in a tone so casual it bordered on dismissive. “I have him.”

Silence dropped into the chamber like a stone.

Fulvius and Crassus both jerked upright, eyes widening in disbelief—shock painting their faces as their minds struggled to process what they had just heard.